Posts Tagged ‘hair’

Ja, so I changed the name of my blog, again. Gotta say where I’m at, don’t I? Devoid of inspiration for a tag line though, so if anyone has any witty/silly/punchy suggestions (or, preferably, one suggestion that combines all three elements), bing them this way.

You might have been wondering why you haven’t heard from me lately. No, it’s not because I hate you. It’s because I’ve been moerse busy. Here’s what’s been happening in my world this year.

I went to work. It rained. I went to work. It rained. I went to work. It rained. I went to the cricket. It rained. I drank a lot. It rained. I went to work. It rained. I went to work. It rained. I went to work. It rained. I lost my phone. It rained. I went to work. It rained. I went to work. It rained. I went to work. It rained. I ate sushi at Bice. It rained. I went to work. It rained. I went to work. It rained. I went to work. It rained. I bought a new phone. It rained. I went to work. It rained. I went to work. It rained. I went to work. It rained. Pim snuck ahead of me in watching The Wire. It poured. I went to work. It rained. I went to work. It rained. I went to work. It rained. I had my hair cut. I went to work*. Luckily it didn’t rain that day.

*Actually, I have been to work loads more times than I said, but I didn’t want to bore you with repetition.

Well, you know when you´re sitting around having one of the late night drunken conversations, and you come up with an amazing idea for a blog, and it´s going to be the biggest thing to hit the interweb since Vernon Koekemoer, and you wake up the next morning and you´ve forgotten your idea or, more likely, you remember it and realise it´s kak or, even if it still seems supercool, you can´t be arsed to actually do it?

That happens to me all the time as well. But after we discovered the definitive cure for male pattern baldness while larking around in the Golden Sands laboratory last night, I realised it would be cruel not to share our knowledge with the rest of the world. Visit Not a baldy to find out more about our miracle solution!

Also, finally, I may just have hit on a concept that will bring me fame and fortune in the blogosphere. I mean, no one who isn´t my friend is ever really going to care about Trinny in Dubai. I still have high hopes for Mahendra´s ties, but until someone buys RK a television, or I move back home, it´s not gonna happen.

To make Not a baldy work, I´m gonna need your help. It´s all about sharing the hair, spreading the love, and getting the word out. First of all, check out the blog. Once you´ve composed yourself and got up off the floor after rolling around laughing, you can then become a Facebook fan and follow us on Twitter. Most of all, I need you to send visual evidence of your hair-sharing shenanigans to notabaldy@gmail.com. And get your friends to do the same. We´re gonna go viral, and you read it here first.

T is blatantly fishing for compliments about her new look. T: Do you notice anything different about me since this morning?Extended pause as AT looks her up and down, clearly puzzled.
Suddenly, he has a flash of inspiration.AT: Your boobs are more prominent!

Hair is very important to me. Which isn´t to say I don´t shave mine all off with some degree of frequency. But this means finding a good hairdresser is vital; my hair is perennially growing out, and needs to be skilfully coaxed towards the desired level of chic(k)ness.

Before I left Cape Town, I was fortunate enough to work for a company where everyone understood this hairy imperative. I don´t know if it was official policy, but in our corner of the office it was perfectly acceptable, even encouraged, to take an extra-long lunch break to get your hair cut, as long as we weren´t actually on deadline.

Witness my last haircut before I left. We´d just finished the nine o´clock meeting, when I casually mentioned I was thinking of dying my hair chocolate brown.
“Chocolate brown,” my editor enthused. “That will look fabulous. You must do it. Make an appointment for today!”
“Ja, well,” I hesitated, disingenuously. “I have a long list today, and we´re going to print next week. Perhaps the week after that?”
“Nonsense,” she countered. “Call your hairdresser right away. You can have an extra-long lunch.”

A few hours later, I waltzed into H.A.N.D in Green Point. Luckily Beauty, my favourite hairdresser in the whole world, had a free slot. The truth is, I´m not actually that picky when it comes to my hair. I´m not going to bring in some picture of this week´s latest celebrity haircut, and demand to look exactly like Katie Holmes or Posh Spice, or whoever. I mean, why would I want to look like Katie Holmes, or Posh Spice, or whoever? I just want to look like me. But it is beyond my limited linguistic skills to explain what “me” is hairstyle-wise, especially since I don´t really know myself. In true passive-aggressive style, I want my hairdresser to access my subconscious; analyse my bone stucture and hair type; and come up with the precise haircut I desire, without me having to actually tell her what it is.

Beauty can do all of these things, which is why I love and miss her. On this particular occasion she stripped my hair of its previous redness, applied a gorgeous chocolate-brown dye, and rounded off the effect with a haircut that was the frigging shiznic. Everyone in the office was so dazzled by my transformation they failed to comment on the fact that this time it had been an extra-extra-long lunch.